(1914)
1
With the turn of the tide the wind backed and swept a wet mist in from the sea. During the day promenaders had thronged the stone pier that partly encircled the deserted harbour; townspeople for the most part—stolid, sombre-clad folk, taking their constitutionals soberly, as if they formed part of some inflexible schedule that regulated their lives. In the afternoons a sprinkling of infantrymen from the fort intermingled with them; loose-limbed young conscripts in grey uniforms, with heads too small for their bodies—a phenomenon partly accounted for by the zeal of the garrison barber, and partly by the size of their grotesque boots.
Now, however, as the evening set in with every promise of dirty weather, the promenaders turned in pairs towards the town. The angler who had been fishing in the shelter of the stone beacon slowly wound in his lines, gathered together his paraphernalia, and departed also. A watchman, carrying a short ladder over his shoulder, came and examined the automatic revolving gear of the lantern, and after polishing the reflector, briskly returned to the town, taking his ladder with him.
With the exception of a solitary figure pacing backwards and forwards under the lee of the rough wall, the pier was soon deserted. But this figure's constitutional appeared to partake of the nature of a vigil, for every few minutes he paused and stared seaward into the mist through a pair of binoculars.
His face, as much of it as was visible above the collar of his ulster, was that of an elderly man, thin and aristocratic-looking. When not gazing out to sea, he contemplated his slow-pacing feet with mild, thoughtful blue eyes through rimless pince-nez. One cheek-bone was ornamented by a duelling-sabre scar.
Half an hour passed, while the spray drifted over the sea-wall and collected under-foot in shallow pools that alternately mirrored the waning light and darkened as a fresh gust of wind hurled itself in from the North Sea. Out at the entrance to the harbour a solitary gull faced the wind with steady beats of its powerful wings, calling with querulous persistency. Lights were beginning to twinkle here and there along the deserted sea-front when the watcher at the pier-head lowered his glasses, hastily wiped the lenses, and raised them again to his eyes. Then he made a guttural observation in an undertone.
Out of the grey smudge of sea and sky a small vessel suddenly became an object distinct, making for the mouth of the harbour: a short, squat craft, with high bows and a tall raking funnel set far aft. To judge by the derricks topped up to her mainmast she had every appearance of being a trawler; yet for a trawler returning in the height of the fishing season she gave evidence of very empty holds by the buoyancy of her movements. She carried no lights, though the dusk was now settling fast.
A short, thick-set man in a blue jersey stood at the wheel; at his side was a younger man, a tall, upright figure muffled in a thick pilot coat. The crew, with the exception of two who were getting ready to make the vessel fast, stood in a group in the waist. For a North Sea trawler the complement of hands appeared somewhat in excess of the usual requirements.
The man at the helm brought the vessel smoothly alongside without acknowledging the presence of the watcher on the pier. His companion, however, smiled a greeting, raised his hand as if to salute, and checked himself. As the trawler went astern and her way slackened, he jumped out and joined the figure in the ulster.
"Well?" asked the elder man.
"Absolutely successful! Twenty-four, all told. I got right across to within ten miles of their coast."
The other gave an abrupt, disconcerting laugh. "You laid them in fours, as you were ordered?"
The young man nodded. "They cannot miss them. And if a ship fails to touch one direct she must cross one of the wires that connect them. The impetus of her speed will swing them aft against her side—two on each side.... Or three on one and one on the other...! Then——!" The speaker made a graceful upward gesture with his hands and smiled.
"And you were not sighted?"
"Once. The fog lifted a little, and one of their Light Cruisers must have seen us. But I was flying their flag——" He laughed again. "Oh, they are fools! Fools! They had time to blow us out of the water six times over before I could slip back into the fog again." The speaker lit a cigarette and moistened his dry lips. "Then I came back as quickly as possible. And now I want my supper and some beer—it's thirsty work, that—that trawling in the North Sea!" He took a Service revolver out of the side pocket of his coarse reefer jacket and extracted the cartridges from it as they walked along the deserted quay.
His companion took his arm affectionately. "My dear boy," he ejaculated. "Beer! Come along! You shall have a gallon—you have earned it! Herr Gott in Himmel! You shall swim in it if you like."
2
It was the supper hour on board the Cruiser, and the "watch below" were enjoying their leisure, after the fashion of the sailor-man, along the crowded batteries. The sailor's meal, especially in war time, is a satisfying affair; but he does not linger over it as one lingers over the tea-table ashore. For one thing, the surroundings are cramped and stuffy, and the time is short; there are other needs more pressing: there is a duck jumper to be scrubbed by to-morrow perhaps; or a few more inches to be added to the wonderful patchwork quilt destined some day to be the pride and ornament of somebody's home. Besides, on deck one can smoke a pipe.
The battery was thronged with men; many were sitting in pairs at a mess-kettle, up to their elbows in soap-suds; forward by the break of the forecastle the ship's barber was reaping a rich harvest of pennies—a "penny a shave and twopence hair-cut" is the recognised tariff. A sewing-machine whirred busily in the lee of a gun-shield; the crew "standing by" the gun exchanged lazy chaff with the bearded sempster. Their watch was nearly at an end, and with the prospect of a meal ahead the sailor brightens wonderfully. The ship's pet goat wandered from group to group, gravely accepting the attentions—cigarettes, banana-skins, and the like—that came his way during stand-easy.
Out of the wreaths of fog and tobacco-smoke forward drifted presently the strains of an accordion——
"It's a long, long way to Tipperary...." The voices of the men, singing under their breath as they worked, blended restfully with the throb of the engines and the swish of water past the ship's side. A little breeze sprang up, tearing rifts here and there in the surrounding fog; a few pale gleams of sunlight filtered through, and on the fore-bridge of the Cruiser the Yeoman of Signals raised his glass and steadied it against the topmost rail. Suddenly he stiffened like a pointer.
"Trawler right ahead, sir!" His lynx-like eye and almost lifelong training told before the others could see anything. The Captain stepped out of the tiny chart-house, where he had been busy with the chart and a pair of dividers.
"There, sir." The Officer of the Watch extended his arm and forefinger. The Navigating Lieutenant joined them, and together they peered through the shifting veil of vapour.
"Yes, I see...." The Captain adjusted his glasses the fraction of a degree. "She's flying our colours ... Can you see her number...?" The Officer of the Watch moved to the voice-pipe, as if to give an order to the helmsman.
"No; steady as you go!" said the Captain. "She's a mile away yet. I want to see her a bit closer—ah..." He broke off disgustedly as the fog closed down on them again, blotting out the pale sunlight. The distant trawler vanished as a picture vanishes from the screen when a hand withdraws the lantern slide. The Captain blinked as the tiny beads of moisture collected on his eyelashes, and rubbed his glasses impatiently. "Damn this fog! Put a look-out in the eyes of the ship." Going to the voice-pipe, he gave a curt order to the Quartermaster at the helm and came back again to the compass. "I didn't like the look of that fellow, for all his display of bunting. Too many men on deck for one of our trawlers." He looked up into the blindfold drifts overhead. "Oh, for one little minute...!"
The Officer of the Watch had stepped to the head of the ladder and beckoned to a messenger:
"Jump down and tell the Captain of the Forecastle to tell off a hand as look-out forward in the eyes of the ship. He's to get him there at once!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" The boy sped off on his errand and darted off along the upper deck. The petty officer whose official title was "Captain of the Forecastle" was seated with his back against the engine-room casings, playing "crib" with a Chief Stoker. The messenger pulled up panting:
"Please—the—Officer—of—the—Watch—sez—tell —off—a—hand—to—look—out—in—the—eyes—of—the—ship!" he gasped. He had run so fast and spoke so quickly, in his fear lest he should forget the message, that to a less trained ear it would have sounded unintelligible.
The Captain of the Forecastle turned a clear grey eye upon him, and moistened a thumb preparatory to dealing. "Right, my son.... Nip along on to the fo's'cle an' pass the word to Able-Seaman Eggers—'e's one of the party standin' by the foremost gun—to get up quick 's 'ell into the eyes of the ship. Tell 'im to get back smart to 'is gun if 'e's wanted. An' then jump down to 19 Mess an' warn Able-Seaman Leckey to relieve 'im nex' watch. Tell 'em both from me to keep their eyes skinned, or they'll get 'ung at the port fore-tops'l yard-arm!"
The boy departed as if wings were attached to his bare heels, his freckled face solemn with the burden of these grave responsibilities. In his Pantheon three deities presided over the affairs of men. There was Mr. Corbett the Boatswain, terrible in wrath, iron-handed, implacable, who drank rum (so rumour had it) as weak mortals drink swipes, and could put an eye-splice in a bit of six-inch wire single-handed in his sleep.... A more mysterious power was that invested in a trinity of Lieutenants known collectively as "Orficer-of-the-Watch"; and, lastly, there was the Captain of the Forecastle. But the greatest of these was the Captain of the Forecastle. Other gods there may have been, but they were too remote and magnificent to concern themselves about Boys 1st Class, or to be concerned about.
Able-Seaman Eggers was leaning against the shield of his gun, inhaling the delicate aroma of bloaters that drifted up from the ship's galley. He hoped his mess was going to have bloaters for supper; he liked them best when they had soft roes.... To him came Mercury, in the form of the fore-bridge messenger, repeating breathlessly the edict of the Captain of the Forecastle. Able-Seaman Eggers accepted the change of duties philosophically; he would as soon spend the remainder of his watch in the "eyes" of the ship as closed up round a gun.
"Oo sez?" he queried—not from any desire to question the order, but because it was necessary to maintain appearances before the Boy 1st Class who delivered it.
"Cap'n of the Forecastle. An' 'e sez you gotter keep your eyes skinned."
Able-Seaman Eggers cuffed the emissary of the Great Powers for form's sake, and betook himself into the foremost point of the "V" formed by the ship's bows.
* * * * *
Down in the Wardroom the occupants had finished tea; the Paymaster rose from the table, and crossed over to the notice-board, carrying a sheet of foolscap over which he had expended much thought and labour. He pinned it up, and stepped back a pace to admire the effect.
The Young Doctor came over to his side. "What are you up to, Pay?"
The other smiled in all the pride of authorship. "I don't know what you think, but I call that rather a neat bit of wit, eh?"
The notice read as follows:
"GRAND QUOITS COMPETITION."
"Subject to interference by atmospherics, barratry, mines, fog, lyddite shell bursting on board, and the King's enemies, it is proposed to hold the above in the dog watch whenever possible:
"First Prize—A good cigar."Second Prize—A blood orange."Third Prize—A bag of nuts.
"Penalty for throwing a quoit overboard:"First Offence—Fined half a crown."Second Offence—Thrown overboard himself.
"And what'll he do the third time?" inquired the Surgeon, who was suspected of being Irish. "But anyway, it's a grand idea—let's go and play before the light gets too bad."
The Paymaster stepped into his cabin and returned with half a dozen discs of indiarubber. "I wheedled these out of the 'Chief.' Padre, come on and play quoits—you and I'll take on 'Pills' and the Gunnery Lieutenant."
"Never played in my life. I should probably chuck them down the funnel or hit the Skipper in the eye on the fore-bridge."
"That doesn't matter—it's your money we want. Come along, 'Guns,' we'll take these two on." The Paymaster led the way out of the Mess, followed by the other three.
A Lieutenant dozing in the one remaining armchair opened his eyes and watched their retreating backs. "Noisy devils," he murmured drowsily. "Why don't they sleep when they can?" and lapsed into slumber again.
A Marine servant entered to remove the tea-things and tidy up the Mess. As a matter of fact, there was not much to tidy: a table and the bare number of chairs required to accommodate the members was all the woodwork in the place. Two ash-trays that no one used stood on the stove, together with a novel, several pipes, and an open tin of tobacco. On the sideboard lay a little pile of newspapers a week old and a "Bradshaw"—pathetic reminder of the days when one looked up trains with a view to leave and suchlike vanities. A couple of war-maps ornamented the bulkhead: otherwise, the Mess—the home and place for sleep, meals, and recreation of a dozen English gentlemen—was bare and unadorned.
The voices of the quoit-players outside came in through the open door, mingling with the soft thud of the rubber quoits as they played. The figure in the arm-chair stirred slightly and smiled in his sleep.
* * * * *
Forward in the bows of the ship Able-Seaman Eggers leaned over the rail, staring into the mist. The ship's bows seemed to be carving their way through liquid jade that fell away on either side of the bows with a deep sobbing sound. He wondered when the bell would strike ... he wanted his supper...
A blinding sheet of flame leaped into the air, hurling a mountain of water after it with a report that rent the fog in tatters.
What was left of the cruiser lifted half clear of the water and lurched forward, sickened and stricken ... her stern rose slowly in the air, the propellers kicking wildly.
After a while objects began to descend out of the riven patches of mist overhead—fragments of wood and steel, wisps of clothing still alight ... shattered images of God...
Then, somewhere aft in the reeling hull, a magazine exploded. The cruiser sank as a bull sinks in the ring before the crowning mercy of the last thrust. A pall of smoke closed down upon the outraged sea.
3
In a ground floor room at the back of Portsmouth Hard an old woman was laying the table for supper. Not much of a supper: the remains of a loaf of bread, some dripping in a saucer. But the chief item of the meal, a bloater, lay on a plate in front of the fire, keeping warm.
An old man sat in a chair by the hearth, reading a newspaper through steel-rimmed glasses. Laying it aside, he leaned forward and prodded the bloater speculatively with a nubbly forefinger. He turned and looked at his wife over the top of the steel-rimmed spectacles.
"It's a soft roe, Mother. 'Eliked 'em wiv soft roe."
The woman had completed the arrangements for their meal, and was tying on her bonnet before the scrap of mirror that hung on the wall.
"Well, don' get pokin' itabout!" she snapped, with unexpected vehemence that told of overstrung nerves. She took a jug off a nail on the dresser and covered it with her apron. There is an etiquette to be observed in these matters when one carries a beer-jug abroad. "I'm goin' out to fetch the beer for supper, an' when I come back you shall 'ave your bloater."
The old man nodded. "That's right; an' buy an evening paper 'fore you come back. P'raps we'll see some news of the boy. Pity 'e ain't 'ere to fetch the beer for supper same's 'e did use to. 'E should 'ave a gallon to 'isself if 'e wus 'ere this minute!" The old man chuckled.
The woman went out and closed the door behind her. The rays of the setting sun glowed red on the old tiled roofs and sparkled on the waters of the harbour. It was a golden evening, and a peaceful haze hung over the far-reaching Dockyard and the few ships lying at anchor in the distance.
The hoarse cry of a paper-boy arrested her attention, and she stopped outside a newsvendor's shop to read the contents bill of the evening paper. She read slowly, for she was no great scholar and her sight was not so good as it had been. Then she went quickly into the shop and bought a copy of the paper.
NAVAL DISASTER IN THENORTH SEA
BRITISH CRUISER SUNK BY MINES
FULL LIST OF CASUALTIES
The glaring type attracted several passers-by, amongst them a policeman on his beat. When the little old woman came out of the shop her face was screwed up with grief, and she held her apron to her eyes. Red eyes and tear-blotched faces are not uncommon in war-time in a garrison town. The bystanders that gathered round understood as if by common intuition, and the policeman spoke encouragement in a gruff, kindly tone. Standing there on the kerb, she had her cry. A Boy Scout held the jug her son would never carry again to fetch the supper beer.
(1915)
1
The coastguard was turning over the earth in one of the tiny cabbage patches that belonged to the row of whitewashed cottages on the flank of the headland. The sun was hot and he paused frequently, straightening up and passing the back of his hand across his forehead. Each time he did this his eyes travelled half-mechanically round the blue curve of the horizon, thence along the foreshore, and so back to the cabbage patch, when he resumed his digging.
It was during one of these pauses that he noticed the gulls, and stood motionless for several seconds, shading his eyes from the sun. The tide had turned and left a few yards of sand below high-water mark wet and gleaming in the October sunlight.
Half a mile away a couple of gulls were circling curiously above something that lay in the shallow water, stranded by the fast-receding tide.
The coastguard watched the birds intently. The dark speck that broke the smooth shimmering surface of the sea might have been seaweed or driftwood, but for them. Seaweed interests nobody—not even sea-gulls. On the other hand what interests sea-gulls interests coastguardmen. Acting apparently along this chain of reasoning, the coastguard dug his spade into the earth, and made off down the winding gravel path that led to the beach. Once on the sand he stopped, said something in an undertone, and glanced back at the coastguard station; he had come without his telescope.
For a moment he paused, measuring the distance with his eye. He was a man of leisurely and deliberate habit of mind. It was a question whether he went back for his telescope or walked along the foreshore and decided at close quarters what it was that the tide was shrinking from in the warm morning sunlight.
There wasn't much in it one way or the other, he decided after due reflection, and set out accordingly along the wet sands at the edge of the sea.
He was in no particular hurry. Whatever his vices, curiosity wasn't one of them. But it was his job; and as he walked he eyed the sea distastefully as if it had been responsible for more jobs than he personally had much use for.
One of the sea-gulls soared suddenly and flew swiftly out to sea with quick strong beats of its wings.
The other still hovered, as if questioning the sea with thin querulous cries. The coastguard drew near, and it too fled seaward, abandoning the enigma that lay with the little waves lapping round it in retreat.
The coastguard stopped at the edge of the water and stood with his hands on his hips contemplating the jetsam.
"Another of 'em," he said, and was for wading out there and then, till he remembered his wife and what she said the last time he went in with his boots on.
Accordingly he removed his boots and socks, rolled up his bell-bottomed trousers, and splashed out to where the thing was lying. He turned it over gingerly and he shook his head.
"'Dentity disc," he muttered, and pulling out his knife, severed the cord that connected a little metal disc to what lay at his feet.
Then he retraced his steps to where his boots were lying, examining the disc as he walked. Three rows of letters and some figures were stamped on it. With difficulty he deciphered them:
A. E. JONES,TMR. R.N.R.T.1347BAP.
With more haste than he had hitherto exhibited the coastguard replaced his socks and boots and returned to the coastguard station.
His mate was examining a steam-drifter far out to sea through the big brass-bound high-power telescope. He turned as the new-comer entered. The latter threw the disc down on to the desk and stepped to the telephone. "A. E. Jones," he said; "Trimmer, Royal Naval Reserve, Trawler Section, No. 1347. Religion, Baptist."
The other nodded, and resumed his scrutiny of the distant drifter. "Bin in the water long?" he inquired.
"Weeks," said the other, turning the handle of the telephone bell, "an' weeks." Then he picked up the receiver, and in half a dozen terse sentences set in motion that part of the vast and complex machinery of the British Admiralty interested in the affairs—even unto death—of R.N.R. (T.) No. 1347.
An hour later an immaculate young gentleman with paper protectors to his cuffs, who occupied a corner of a large dusty room overlooking Whitehall, was running his pen down the pages of a tome resembling in appearance the Doomsday Book. "J," he said. "Um—m—m. Jo—Jones—1347. Next of kin, mother. That's the fellah." Then he wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a messenger, glanced at the clock, removed his paper protectors from his cuffs, and went off to his lunch, and the spiritual refreshment of twenty minutes' badinage with a rather coy waitress at a popular café.
His part in the drama was taken a couple of hours later by a Registrar of the Naval Reserve at a grimy Welsh seaport, who was also the Assistant Collector of Customs and a deacon at the local chapel; he, at the bidding of a curt telegram, pumped up the back tyre of his bicycle and rode some three miles along a cobbled thoroughfare, till he came to a row of cottages that stared across an evil-looking canal at mounds of slag. He dismounted at the door of the third house and knocked. An old woman answered the summons, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Mrs. Jones?"
"Aye," said the old woman. "Have they found 'im?"
"They have," said the registrar grimly. "An' buryin' him they are to-morrow."
The old woman sat down in a chair and threw her apron over her head. "Anwl!" she wailed. "Anwl, Anwl! Seven year since I set eyes on 'im, an' then he did hit me a clout and went foreign—drinkin' he'd been...Dhu!Dhu! And me his mother."
The registrar entered the squalid room, drew a chair up beside the old woman, and, sitting down, prepared to enjoy himself.
"TheArd-miralty," he began sonorously, unfolding the telegram and clearing his throat; "the Ard-miralty, look you, gives me authority to pay your fare to the East Coast of England so's you can be present at the funeral, Mrs. Jones." Then, his voice rising to the triumphal mournful "hoeul"* of the Welsh preacher, he added, "Are not two sparrows sold for one farthing——!"
* A sort of sing-song chanty.
The old woman ceased to rock herself to and fro. Her head emerged from under her apron.
"Maggie Ann!" she cried shrilly.
A slovenly girl, with a sallow face, and masses of untidy hair twisted up in curl papers, crossed the yard at the back, and stood in the doorway.
"Get you out my black dress an' my red flannel petticoat, Maggie Ann."
The registrar eyed the girl sternly. "Have you got a black dress too?" he inquired.
"I have indeed," replied Maggie Ann simply. "In the pawnshop, it is."
The registrar consulted the telegram as if it contained directions as to the method of redeeming articles from pawn.
"I am authorised by the Ard-miralty to issue two tickets to the next of kin of the deceased." He cleared his throat and contemplated Maggie Ann. "I am prepared to give you one so's you can go to the funeral too."
"There's my married sister," said Maggie Ann reflectively, "with a black dress as would fit me——"
"Get it you from her," commanded the registrar majestically. "An' be at the station at 4 o'clock. I will find a train for you." His manner suggested that trains were things that took even a man a good deal of finding.
He was as good as his word, however. The two quaint figures clad in rusty black, voluble and breathless with the enormity of this adventure, were bundled into a third-class carriage. The registrar handed the elder woman a sheet of directions, and, being a kindly-hearted man, he pressed five shillings into the palm of Maggie Ann's black-cotton-gloved hand. Then he spoke magnificently to the guard—as one brass-bound official to another—and with a wide gesture of farewell that was partly a military salute and partly a parochial benediction he turned on his heel.
The train slowly gathered speed, and the two women sat staring out of the window as if they were hypnotised. Then Maggie Ann opened her clenched palm and displayed the two half-crowns which she held together with the tickets.
"Did 'e give 'em to you?"
"Aye," said Maggie Ann.
"Well, well! Who'd ha' thought it?" said her mother. "Put 'em somewhere safe, Maggie Ann, for fear of robbers." They had the carriage to themselves, and Maggie Ann obeyed her mother accordingly.
Then whispering together in the vernacular, after the manner of the Welsh, crying a little from time to time to keep one another company, and sustained throughout the long journey by peppermint drops of amazing pungency, they were whirled out of the land of their fathers into the unknown.
Among the passengers who shared their carriage later on was a dignified, elderly lady, with silver-white hair and a face of a singular, though rather sad, sweetness of expression. She was dressed in deep black, and listened intently as the old woman told her story for the benefit of their fellow passengers. She did not smile, as did the others, when Maggie Ann of the reddened eyes and nose, with wisps of untidy hair protruding from under her married sister's hat, was bidden to display the tickets in token of an Empire's solicitude for the women of the humblest of her sons.
"You are lucky," she said gently. "You can at least bury your dead. That was denied me. I lost my first-born in that battle too. He was a sailor like your son was."
They reached Paddington as the dusk was falling, and in the vast echoing dimness of the station the immensity of the unknown descended upon the two Welsh women, as they stood bewildered upon the platform among the jostling throng of passengers.
"Find a policeman, Maggie Ann," said the elder woman, consulting the sheet of directions given her by the registrar. "An' ask 'im where to find a tidy li'l' public-'ouse where we can stop the night."
But before Maggie Ann could invoke the aid of the law in quest of lodgings, the grey-haired lady who had spoken to them in the train again approached the pair.
"My car is waiting," she said. "Will you both come home with me for the night? I have a big house and a very empty one; there is room for you both. Cook will give you breakfast early, and you can start for the East Coast to-morrow morning in good time for the funeral."
"Well, indeed to goodness!" said Mrs. Jones, and suffered herself to be led to a waiting car in which, to the visible astonishment of an elderly chauffeur, she and Maggie Ann were placed. "There's kind you are, Mum."
"Not at all," said the grey-haired lady as the car started. "I have very few servants now, and there are plenty of spare servants' rooms. I am grateful to Providence for bringing us together into the same railway carriage," she continued simply. "I—I am so glad to be able to help"—her hands twisted together on her lap with a little nervous, rather pathetic gesture—"another mother."
The visitors supped in a vast spotless servants' hall, where the floor was of polished linoleum in black and white squares, and the electric light shone down on burnished copper pans and scoured woodwork.
Cook, a stout sentimentalist, afterwards bade the old woman draw a chair to the fire and together they brewed strong tea.
"I've buried two husbands," she said, "but never a bairn have I borne. I don't know but what you're to be envied, Mrs. Jones. Her ladyship, she gave her only son, same's what you did, and her heart is broken. But she holds her head the prouder 'There's worse things than dyin' for the right,' she sez." Cook dabbed at her eyes with a huge pocket-handkerchief.
Janet, the trim housemaid, was interested in the Navy for personal reasons in which a good-looking signalman "on Jellicoe's boat" played a considerable part. She it was, early the following morning, who took Maggie Ann in hand. "Did you ever see such hair wasted?" she said, contemplating Maggie Ann's honey-coloured tangled thatch. "Even if you are going to your brother's funeral..." and bade her comb it, and dressed it with such cunning that the pale slatternly girl stood silent, staring before the mirror. The generous enthusiasm of the woman who is fond of her sex seized Janet. "Here," she said. "Put this blouse on; it's one her ladyship gave me. I don't want it. And see if these boots will fit you.... Oh! what stockings—wait a minute." Drawers were rummaged, bits of lace and crape unearthed, the married sister's hat was pounced upon and underwent a swift metamorphosis in Janet's nimble fingers. "There!" she said at length. "Why, I believe you're pretty!" Maggie Ann turned from the glass with her hazel eyes aglow, and a faint colour creeping towards the cheek bones set wide apart in her pale face.
2
Towards dawn a British Destroyer limped into the little harbour embraced by one flank of the headland where the coastguard station stood.
One of the blades of the Destroyer's propeller was missing, and the "A" bracket, designed to support the shaft, threatened to decline any further responsibility in the matter.
The Destroyer had sighted an enemy submarine on the surface at close quarters during the night. The submarine had dived with commendable promptitude, but not quite fast enough to avoid the nimbly manœuvred Destroyer, who grated over her outer skin at thirty knots. The conning tower of the submarine, which bumped along the length of the Destroyer's side, was responsible for the disinclination of the "A" bracket for anything but a merely passive attitude towards the damaged propeller.
A couple of depth charges accelerated the submersion of the submarine considerably, and the Destroyer made for the nearest harbour with leaking stern-glands, and a ship's company uplifted beyond mere jubilation.
The Commanding Officer went ashore to telegraph his report of the incident, while the Chief Artificer Engineer and the Blacksmith put their heads together over the fractured "A" bracket.
Ashore, the Lieutenant-Commander encountered the Chief Officer of the Coastguard.
"Seein' as 'ow you're in the harbour, sir," said the Chief Officer, "mebbe you'd like to land a party for the funeral this afternoon."
His tone was that of a man organising an entertainment under difficulties. "This 'ere's a dull 'ole, an' a bit of a show would liven 'em up like."
The Lieutenant, standing on the steps of the telegraph office, looked up the sleepy street.
"Whose funeral?" he inquired.
"Party o' the name o' Jones," replied the C.O. in tones of melancholy enjoyment. "Trimmer, Royal Naval Reserve, washed ashore near the coastguard station. Mother attendin' funeral at 2 P.M. If you was to land a firin' party, an' a bugler, an' mebbe half a dozen mourners, sir, we could do the thing in style."
The Lieutenant mused in silence for a while. The "A" bracket would take till five o'clock, and the funeral was at 2 P.M. "I can't guarantee the mourners," he said, "but you can have the firing party and the bugler. And if any of the men wish to attend as mourners, I'll give them leave."
"Thank you, sir," said the Chief Officer. "The Boy Scouts from 'ere is turning out, and the firemen from Nordbury, an' the lifeboat's crew. They was all for 'avin' a collection afterwards in aid of the institootion. But I sez to them——"
The Lieutenant-Commander had sighted a pink parasol, shading a white muslin dress above neat ankles, that emerged from a shop farther down the street. If he walked quickly enough he ought to be able to get a glimpse of the face hidden by the parasol by the time he reached the pier, where his gig was waiting. Two years of war in a Destroyer quickens masculine interest in such problems. He descended the steps hurriedly. "That'll be all right," he said. "The party'll be at the landing-place at one-thirty," and hastened down the street in the wake of the pink parasol.
Twenty minutes later he was climbing on board his Destroyer.
"Mr. Foulkes," he said to the Gunner, "I want you to take a firing party of eight men and a bugler, to attend the funeral of an R.N.R. trimmer who's being buried ashore this afternoon at 2 P.M. Better run them through the manual before they land. And if any of the port watch want to attend as mourners they can have leave. Some of the stokers may like to go."
The Torpedo Coxswain who had overheard the conversation went forward to herald the tidings along the Mess deck. "Blime!" said a bearded seaman ecstatically, when he heard the intelligence, "first we sinks a perishin' submarine, an' then strike me giddy if the bloke don't lush us up to a funeral ashore! I reckon that's actin' proper 'andsome."
At 1 P.M. the funeral party fell in on the upper deck; the brown-gaitered firing party, with rifles and bandoliers, and an attendant bugler, were given final injunctions by the Gunner.
"Don't forget now, when we arrives at the mortuary, dead-'ouse or what-not, the firing party will rest on their arms reversed, the muzzle of the rifle placed on the toe of the right boot, 'ands resting on the butt, chins sunk upon the breast, at the same time assumin' an aspec' cheerful but subdued."
The Lieutenant-Commander arrived on deck and interrupted the oration.
"What's that brigade fallen in forward there, Mr. Foulkes?" he inquired. "We aren't giving general leave."
"Them's the mourners, sir," said the Gunner, sternly surveying the crape-swathed ranks, who, after the fashion of sailors when about to go ashore, were preening themselves and squaring off each other's blue-jean collars.
"Mourners, 'shun!"
The mourners sprang to attention and gazed solemnly into vacancy.
"How many of the port watch are landing, in the name of mercy?" asked the Commanding Officer.
"The 'ole lot, sir," said the Gunner, "bein' wishful to pay respec' to the dead."
The third volley rang out across the quiet churchyard that was the last resting-place of R.N.R. (T.) 1347.
The bolts of the rifles rattled and snapped as the firing party unloaded; the last empty cartridge case fell to the ground with a little tinkling sound, and the bugler raised his bugle to send the thin sweet notes of "The Last Post" out into the stillness of the afternoon, speeding the fighting soul upon its final journey.
Its last unfinished note died away, and there was a moment's utter silence. A hoarse word of command, followed by the grounding of rifle-butts, succeeded the stillness, and the firing party swung off down the hill with the air of men who had handled a dramatic situation without discredit.
The mourners, at the invitation of the Chief Officer of the Coastguard—who held that a thing worth doing at all was worth doing properly—repaired to the Coastguard Station to partake of a cup of tea.
Here as many as could crowd into the little house were introduced, in a congenial atmosphere of tears, hot tea and peppermint, to the mother and sister of R.N.R. (T.) 1347.
"Dear, dear," said Mrs. Jones in a gratified aside to Maggie Ann, "to think Albert Edward had so many friends! There's fine young fellows too."
The mourners, not one of whom had ever set eyes on Albert Edward in their lives, acted to this cue with the inevitable instinct of the sailor for the rôle required of him.
When, reluctantly, they departed, shepherded back to the boat by the Torpedo Coxswain, Maggie Ann stood at the little gate leading to the cabbage patch, and gazed after them with swimming eyes.
"There's kind they are," she murmured, "grand, strong men an' all..." and thrust a crumpled twist of paper one had given her, bearing his name and address, into the bosom of her dress.
A week later the Commanding Officer of the Destroyer, in the exercise of his duties as censor of the ship's company's letters, came across the following epistle:
"DEAR Miss JONES,—Hoping this finds you as it leaves me in the pink, thank God. I take up my pen to write you these few lines dear Miss Jones, it gives me much pleasure to write to you as promised after your brother's funeral which I hope you will find time to write me a few lines as I am a very lonely sailor. Being an norfun and no incumbrances whatsoever dear Miss Jones I now draw to a close with best respects and plese write soon.
"from your sincere friend,"JOE WALSH, able seaman.
"P.S.—I enclose postle order for £1 so plese don't be offended, excuse me, hoping you will buy some little present for yourself."
The Lieutenant-Commander restored the document to its envelope. "Thank God I was taught young to accept responsibility," he said. He picked up the censor stamp, pressed it fervently on the envelope, and sent the letter on its way.
(1919)
It stood in the darkest corner of a West End antique furniture dealer's shop.
"That?" The proprietor echoed my inquiry.
"Yes, it's one of the desks out of the oldBritannia. Came out of the studies where the cadets were given instruction on board. I acquired it when the ship was broken up." He eyed me thoughtfully through his spectacles, and passed three fingers round thin, clean-shaven lips. "Valueless intrinsically, of course. But it struck me it might have sentimental associations for some: possibly historic associations in years to come. Generations of cadets have carved and scratched their names all over it. This was one of the few remaining. Nearly all the others had been broken up for firewood—it's only deal."
Together we dragged the relic into the light of day. "You see?" he said, and switched a duster over the varnished sloping surface. One glance sufficed.
"Yes," I replied, "I see.... I'll take the desk. I'll take it now if you can get me a taxi."
"Thank you," he said.
"Thankyou," said I.
* * * * * *
The fashionable epidemic prevailing at the time was mumps. The stricken and the suspect were herded in separate enclosures between decks, segregated by canvas screens hung from the beams overhead to the deck. The migratory mump germs probably found the canvas screens less of an obstacle to freedom than their victims, and to these, doomed to the confines of a hammock, the time passed with leaden slowness. Even the novelty of contemplating in a mirror the unfamiliar distortion of one's jowl palled after a bit. "Dracula," a much-thumbed and germ-impregnated volume, circulated from hammock to hammock until even Bram Stoker's vampires failed to stir the pulse. Meals, reduced to proportions in themselves an insult, did little to break the monotony, and the hour arrived when Satan, on the look-out for idle hands, must have found his task what a later generation would have called a "cinch."
It was the custom, when visitations of this nature descended upon the cadets, for a sick-berth steward to be banished into exile with the stricken. The job can have been no sinecure, although germs ignored the individual in question with as great indifference as bees display towards an apiarist. Frequent sojourns in the camps of the afflicted had soured the temper of this sick-berth steward and warped a nature that can at no time have been a sunny one. As a ministering angel his appearance was not æsthetic; he was a ponderous fellow, with a neck that ran to creases at the back and appeared to undulate imperceptibly into his bullet head. In fact, it was difficult to say where neck ended and head began. His eyes were small and furtive; his nose a button; Nature, in a well-meaning attempt to balance matters, had given him enormous ears set at right angles to his head. It was this peculiarity that earned him the title of "Windsails," a name by which he was universally known among the cadets, and to which, curiously enough, he answered without resentment.
Now, it happened that one of the victims of the mump scourge was a certain cadet whom, for purposes of this reminiscence, we will call Day. As events transpired, he was not long destined to wear the King's uniform, but passed a few years afterwards to a walk of life whose ethics obeyed a less trammelled code than that of the Royal Navy.
In worldly knowledge, ingenuity of mind, and humour of a certain standard, he was far in advance of his years. Possessed of a cold-blooded courage, utterly indifferent to consequences, he was an unfaltering ringleader in a "rux." In fact, it was this last quality that made for such popularity as he commanded. No one really liked him, but there were a good many who held him in half-grudging admiration, and so passed under an influence not wholly to the good, but dominated by his personality and controlled by a glib and bitter tongue.
Boredom hit him harder than the more placid temperaments; they might be provoked to mischief thereby, but in the soul of Day it roused a very devil of perversity. Finally, one evening when the slender evidences of the last meal had been removed, and life became a blank without outlook or hope, Day broached his scheme to half a dozen of his languid fellow-patients who lounged round the open gun-port watching the afterglow dying in the western sky.
"I vote we cut Windsails down when he's snoring in his hammock to-night," he said in his slow, meditative drawl. Windsails slept at night in a hammock slung a little forward of his charges, and the sound of his snoring compared favourably with what one can imagine of the roaring of the Bulls of Bashan.
There was an aghast silence. The very tone in which Day propounded such a stupendous outrage was sufficient in itself to compel their admiration.
"I can reach the foot of his hammock lanyard where it's made fast to the beam, from my hammock," he went on, with a thoughtful smile on his thin lips. "I can reach it with my razor." It was in keeping with other characteristics that he should possess a razor, although the need for it was not apparent on his smooth cheeks.
"We shall all be run in," objected a faint-heart. "Heaven only knows what we'd get for cutting down a sick-berth steward. A 'bimming,' as likely as not." Perhaps some dim shadow of the Hague Convention floated through the speaker's mind.
Day eyed him contemptuously. "Why should anyone be run in? He'd never suspect. They'd think his lanyard broke 'cos it was rotten. Windsails weighs about a ton."
"But suppose they ask us point-blank if we know anything about it?"
"Why, then we should have to tell a lie—a thundering big one—and stick to it." He mused with his agate-coloured eyes on the far-off hills turning dark against the quiet sky. "'Course, you fellows needn't know anything about it. You can shut your eyes when you hear Windsails start snoring, and keep 'em shut. Then you couldn't actually swear who did it." His smile was, somehow, never quite boyish. "D'you see?"
Something like relief spread over the faces of the conspirators. Assuredly this was a master-mind.
"It 'ud have to be done in a wily way," said one, revolving the possibilities of the coup with reviving courage. Given this loophole for the conscience the monstrous proposal assumed an alluring aspect. "Make the lanyard look sort of frayed.... Windsails told me there weren't any letters for me yesterday," he added inconsequently, "and there were two. He was just too jolly lazy to get 'em."
"He found my cigarettes where I'd hidden 'em—in my boots," supplemented another, "and collared 'em. Said I could either give 'em to him or be run in." He brooded darkly. "Serve him jolly well right!" For the moment he almost persuaded himself that the affair was in the nature of a punitive reprisal.
"It's just possible, though," temporised a more law-abiding member, "that if no one owns up they'll punish everybody—I mean everybody who's under the screen now."
"Ah!" observed Day, "in that case something would have to be done about it."
The evening wore on, and the invalids retired to their hammocks. Windsails, having concluded the few simple preliminaries to which he was accustomed, turned into his.
"Fuggy beast!" whispered one of the watchful partners of this unholy alliance. "He doesn't even take his socks off!"
One by one the law-abiding occupants of the hammocks dropped off to sleep; but, as the sound of their even breathing swelled and the minutes passed, the wakefulness of the conspirators increased. Would Windsails ever start snoring? What was Day doing? Did it hurt much to be cut down? Supposing he died ... broke his neck?
Then, faint at first, gathering volume and strength every moment, began the rumbling, stertorous eruption of sound that proclaimed the reception of Windsails into the arms of Morpheus.
If he died, would it be murder? ... Accessories before the fact.... Of course, as long as one kept one's eyes tightly shut.... What was Day doing? Why didn't he get it over? Keeping everyone on tenterhooks——
There was a soft, almost noiseless chuckle. That was Day. Of course the situation would appeal to him; he knew no one dared open his eyes.
Crash! Then utter silence.
Ten throbbing seconds passed—twenty. Still no sound. He must be dead!—no need to pretend any longer. Half a dozen heads emerged from blankets—craned; jaws dropped, hearts beat suffocatingly. But the huddled figure on the deck made no movement; it remained in the light of the police-lantern a confused heap of blankets and muffled humanity that presently emitted a groan—and then another.
No one dared move; blanched faces stared down over the edges of the canvas hammocks; visions of disgrace, expulsion—worse, the felon's dock and hangman's noose, came clustering out of the shadows.
And then Day snored.
It was not a loud snore; nothing overdone or inartistic. Just the heavy, regular breathing of an innocent and tired boy asleep. That fellow had nerves of steel! Endurance, pent in frailer vessels, had just reached its limits when the huddled figure on the deck stirred, rolled out of its blankets, and, with another groan, rose to his feet. Day's solitary breathing became a chorus of snores, impassioned in their realism.
Windsails stood motionless, contemplating a massive bollard adjoining the ruins of his bed.
"That's what winded me," he said with the air of one who had solved a problem of some complexity. He must have come in contact with it as he fell. Then, slowly and deliberately he bent down, picked up the severed hammock lanyard and scrutinised it in the lantern light. In silence he made the end fast to the beam again, readjusted his blankets, and climbed ponderously into the hammock.
"Snore away!" he observed with vicious calm. "But there's some of you as will answer for this!"
There was in the captain's face that blend of sternness and faint surprise with which he always confronted malefactors. In this case there were arraigned before him all the recent inmates of the quarantine quarters.
"It is incredible to me," he was saying, "that any officer—any young gentleman about to become a naval officer—should so far forget himself as to perpetrate this outrage. I have personally examined the hammock lanyard, and there is no doubt in my mind whatever that it was cut—cut by a sharp knife. There was no one under the screen at the time with the exception of you young gentlemen." He paused and allowed his grave, handsome eyes to travel over their haggard faces. "I expect the cadet who did it to step forward and own up honourably."
No one moved. There was a pause. "I shall give you all three minutes to think it over," continued the captain, "and if at the end of that time no one has come forward, the whole lot will do instruction on board every half-holiday for the rest of the term." The captain drew out a gold watch, glanced at it, and closed it with a little snap. As if dismissing the whole business from his mind, he turned and began conversing with the commander in inaudible undertones. Finally, he drew forth the watch again and turned towards the cadets.
"You have fifteen seconds..." he said, paused, and closed the watch for the last time. Turning towards the commander, he nodded. "Dismiss the cadets."
On the desk in front of each cadet was a litter of foolscap covered with ladders of bewildering calculations whereby seamen, incredibly enough, ascertained the position of their ships at noon.
It was a laborious task, exacting and uninteresting during legitimate school hours; as an occupation for a half-holiday in June, with the warm air blowing through the open ports the scent of hay and Devon moorland, it was loathsome. One of the toilers, having finally placed his ship securely in the centre of Radnorshire, laid down his pen, thrust his thumbs into his "beckets" and gave himself up to vengeful brooding. The breeze brought visions of the playing fields and practice at the nets, with a lemon-squash to follow ... and a strawberry ice.... Oh, curse Day! Why couldn't he own up and take his hiding like a man? What was the use of his declaring that the lanyard really broke of its own accord? That he never touched it! As if anybody believed him after all he said the evening before it happened.
He glanced across the study with furtive dislike at the author of all this misery. It was hard to believe that he had really done it to look at him now. Day had finished his task (he was extraordinarily quick at figures) and was leaning back in his seat with his lips pursed up in a soundless whistle, staring at the flies on the ceiling with a sort of far-away smile in his eyes. Of course he had done it! Didn't the captain as good as say he'd done it? He was doubtless planning some fresh devilment.
His dislike of Day crystallised to hatred. He had rather admired him before all this took place; admired his cool impudence, his quick tongue, his superlative cleverness at games. Now he hated him, and wanted to do something that would proclaim his feelings to the Universe.... Perpetuate—— An idea smote him and his face brightened.
With the aid of a book of logarithmic tables and an instrument box he built up a not too obvious barricade screening him from casual observation. Then, drawing a knife from his pocket, he cleared a little space on his desk and set to work, whittling unobtrusively. In a quarter of an hour it was done, and with ink and spittle the newly-cut wood anointed to a semblance of age. Feeling better, he resumed his navigation.
* * * * * *
The daylight had gone from the outside world and there was only firelight in the room. The little desk I had bought earlier in the day still stood in the corner where I had deposited it, and as I lay half-dozing in the saddlebag chair, the mocking flames played strange tricks. It seemed as if another figure were in the room—a restless, uneasy shadow among the shadows, and ever and again it seemed to hover round the desk. I lay with my eyes half closed, identifying one by one the familiar objects of the room, and gradually the presence of this shadow puzzled me to wakefulness. The poker, left carelessly between the bars of the grate, dropped a few inches, and the handle struck the fender with a little rattle. The fire spluttered and flared brightly, so that I saw the figure by the desk distinctly. It was a tall, gaunt man in a uniform I didn't recognise for the moment—a ragged, mud-stained jacket and baggy trousers. Then I remembered seeing a regiment of them on the march once near Algiers. It was the uniform of the Foreign Legion.
The figure was bending over the desk tracing something on it with a lean forefinger.
I sat upright, and as I moved the tall man turned his face towards me. There was a grimy stained bandage round his head, and it was twenty years since I had seen him, but I recognised the queer pale eyes and thin lips.
"Day!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," he said. It gave me an inexplicable shiver down the back to hear him speak. "But I didn't do it. I didn't cut Windsails down." He fingered the surface of the desk like a lost soul feeling for the latch of Heaven's gate.
"I meant to do it," he went on, "and I had my razor ready. I was going to keep you all in suspense for a bit. And then, suddenly, before I touched it, the lanyard broke. I think Windsails cut off the frayed ends afterwards. He hated us all."
There was a dark stain on the left breast of Day's jacket that seemed to be spreading slowly.
"I came back to tell you," he said, his voice sounding faint and far away. "I don't care what the others think. But this——" Again he fingered the desk.
Within reach of my hand was an electric desk lamp, one of those portable things with a switch at the base. I reached out and turned it on, flooding the room with light.
The desk was there all right, but I was alone.
Carrying the lamp in my hand, I rose and crossed over to examine my purchase again. Yes, there were the words, crossed and recrossed by faintly scratched names and dates, covered by successive layers of varnish, but still plain to read, deep carven in the wood:
DAY IS A SCAB
The room was half full of smoke when I had finished, and the acrid smell of burning presently brought an alarmed housemaid to the threshold.
"It's nothing," I reassured her. "I was only doing a little poker-work on this desk." I replaced the fireiron in the fender, and opened the window to let the smoke out as the maid withdrew.
An uneasy wind was fretting the invisible rhododendrons with the threat of rain on the morrow.
"I'm sorry, Day," I said to the darkened universe. "But it's all right now. I've burnt it out."
(1917)
1
The Quartermaster of the Watch pushed aside the tarpaulin cover to the Wardroom hatchway and whistled softly through his teeth. "Mail," he said to the Officers' Steward, who stepped out of the diminutive pantry in answer to the summons, and, bending down, thrust a bundle of sodden envelopes into the outstretched hand. It was snowing hard, and the whaler that brought off the Destroyer's Christmas mail had shipped sufficient water to call for a muttered protest from beneath the sou'-wester of the stroke oar.
"I don' mind wettin' my blinking shirt," he muttered, as he tugged at the oar, "not so long as we brings 'ope 'an' comfort. But if them perishin' mail-bags is goin' to sit in a pool o' water—what the 'ell's the use? No one can't read a letter wot's bin soaked in the Norf Sea for a hour!" The whaler's crew murmured concurrence.
The Coxswain, nursing the mail-bags on his knee with a hand on each and his elbow on the tiller, bade the crew chuck their weight into their oars and mind their ensanguined business—what time he, the Coxswain, would mind his. This admirably adjusted division of labour brought them eventually alongside, and the mail inboard.
The Surgeon Probationer, whose body was buried in the depths of a wicker arm-chair (with the exception of his feet, which were on top of the stove; and his heart, which was in the keeping of the "Wren" driver of an Admiralty car), heard the whaler come alongside and was at the bottom of the hatchway as soon as the steward.
"Gimme the ruddy things," he muttered, hungrily, and awoke the partially gassed inmates of the Wardroom with a joyous whoop.
"Mail!" he shouted, and dealt the moist envelopes into the laps of the recumbent figures sleeping off the effects of a Christmas luncheon in various attitudes of statuesque abandon.
The Mess awoke bleary-eyed, and fumbled with its correspondence. One by one the forms sat upright; grunts were succeeded by articulate expressions of approval. The Lieutenant (E), who sat nearest the bell, rose to his feet and pressed it fervently. Then he sat down again, ordered a drink, and slit open the first of four fat envelopes. It was from a favourite sister, ætat fourteen, who, having made up her feminine mind that Sir David Beatty's position in the naval cosmos was one that her brother would fill with more picturesque and efficient completeness, speedily surrounded that officer in a comfortable aura of giggling self-complacency.
The Midshipman R.N.R. burst open a bulging envelope and stepped straightway on to a magic carpet, which wafted him out of the steel shell of a Destroyer's Wardroom into a Berkshire vicarage.
The Sub sat on the settee with his legs in heavy leather sea-boots and his elbows on his knees reading a letter from a farm in Northamptonshire. The writer of the letter had spent the morning cleaning out a byre, and the early part of the afternoon sorting potatoes. She had then bathed and sat down in her prettiest crêpe-de-chine kimono and a mingled fragrance of China tea and bath salts to the composition of a letter that spread a slowly widening grin of ecstasy across the weather-beaten features of the recipient, who had almost forgotten what a woman's voice sounded like.
The clouds of tobacco-smoke curled to and fro in the close atmosphere of the Destroyer's Wardroom, and the silence—save for the rustle of a quickly-turned page or the snicker of a knife opening a fresh envelope—was profound. Then the Surgeon Probationer chuckled hoarsely. It was a profane sound and passed unnoticed; but presently he bent forward and thrust a gaudy strip of pasteboard beneath the nose of the enraptured Sub-Lieutenant.
"Call that nuffin'?" he queried, coarsely.
The Sub detached his soul with difficulty from the seventh heaven, and considered a highly-coloured representation of a robin upon a snowy background, and the legend "Peace on earth and goodwill among men" picked out in frosted letters against a border of holly leaves.
"'Snice, ain't it?" said the Surgeon Probationer.
"Fair bit of all-right," said the Sub, good-humouredly, and resumed page seven of the closely scribbled sheet:
"I am writing this by the firelight, and if only you were here we'd draw up our chairs close and p'r'aps——"
"My Aunt Agatha sent it to me," continued the voice of the importunist. "Read what's written on the back."
The Sub, who was what is called a good mess-mate, turned the pasteboard over rather absent-mindedly.
"Love your enemies," was written in angular spidery handwriting across the inoffensive surface of the card. The Sub was twenty, but he had known four years of warfare against the Powers of Evil, which we call Germany for short.
"Any relation of Lansdowne or Ramsay Macdonald, your Aunt Agatha?" he inquired, and tossed the card back, to return instantly to a firelit twilight and "p'r'aps."
The Surgeon looked round the Mess in search of a fresh confidant. The First Lieutenant sat hunched up on his right, holding a bunch of sheets of paper clenched in his hand, and staring at the stove with unseeing eyes.
"Here, Number One," said Aunt Agatha's nephew, and smote his neighbour on the knee. "You look as if you wanted brightening up. Read that, my lad! Both sides. Every picture tells a story."
The Lieutenant turned eyes like those of a startled horse upon the speaker.
"Eh?" he said. He, too, had come back a long way to answer a living voice.
"Read that, my pippin."
The Lieutenant read obediently, turning the card backwards and forwards in his fingers as if looking for something that wasn't there. The crumpled sheets of his letter dropped to the deck and lay unheeded.
Then abruptly he laughed; it was not a laugh common to Englishmen, and so disconcerting was the sound that two or three faces lifted from the preoccupation of letter or illustrated paper, and tranquil eyes stared curiously.
"My God!" said the First Lieutenant. "That's the best joke—the best joke——" His voice dropped low. He handed back the Christmas-card and fumbled blindly for the fallen sheets of his letter. One by one he straightened them on his knees, smoothing out the creases mechanically.
"The best joke——" He rose to his feet with something in his white face that jerked the medical man instantly upright beside him.
"Sit down," said the First Lieutenant, and there was a note in his voice the Doctor obeyed, because it was something he was still young enough to acknowledge. "Listen," said the Lieutenant, in hard, dry tones. "You've got to share this—you've all got to share this." Papers rustled and every eye was on the speaker. "It's—it's too good to keep to oneself. My brother"—he made a little gesture with the letter in his hand—"my brother was wounded—broken thigh—twenty miles behind the line in a base hospital—the Huns bombed it in broad daylight, with the Red Cross flying on every flagstaff and painted on every roof—bombed it in cold blood, and killed thirty-four wounded officers and men and two V.A.D.'s. They killed my brother, and they killed——" He thrust the letter into the limp hands of the Surgeon Probationer. "You gave me something to read just now. Read that! They killed the whitest woman—she was trying to save him—with the Red Cross on her breast—and his thigh broken. Goodwill among men! Love your enemies! Love your——"
The Gunner came across the mess with his heavy tread, his stolid face full of concern.
"No offence, I'm sure, sir," he said, glancing at the Surgeon. "Mr. Dantham didn't know—howcouldhe? Nor yet his aunt——"
The tragedy of one is the tragedy of all in a community as small and as intimate as a Destroyer Wardroom; but the innate sense of justice in the Briton's heart found expression in the Gunner's inarticulate sympathy. He held no brief for the Hun, but he was the champion of the shocked Surgeon and Aunt Agatha for all her pacifist leanings.
The Surgeon sat with the unread letter in his hands staring up at the First Lieutenant.
"Oh!" he said. "Oh, the swine." A growl of confirmation ran round the Mess, but no one addressed the First Lieutenant direct.
"Yes," he said. "Bestial swine. Brutal, bestial swine. If he'd been killed by the shell that broke his leg I wouldn't have minded. That would have been fair fight; and she—if it had been septic poisoning or disease; those are the risks all nurses run: the enemies they face and fight all day and night. But this!" He spoke in low, measured tones. "If I ever get to grips with a Hun after this——" The mask of icy self-control slipped for a moment from his face. His features worked and his hands made a movement somehow suggestive and brutal.
"Best have a drink," said the Gunner, soothingly, and as he spoke there was a trampling of men's feet overhead, muffled by the snow on the thin plating. The Quartermaster's pipe rippled and shrilled, to be succeeded by a hoarse sing-song bellow. "Boot and saddle" sounded in a cavalry barracks never stirred the stables as that rush of unseen feet overhead, breaking the peace of a Christmas afternoon in harbour, galvanised the Wardroom into sudden activity.
"Stand by to slip from the buoy," said the Gunner, and made for the hatchway. But the First Lieutenant was before him, bareheaded, cramming his Christmas mail into his pocket as he swung himself up the iron rungs of the ladder.
2
The Commander, who had been standing peering through his glasses for the last five minutes, lowered them suddenly and glanced at the chart clamped on the bracket beside him.
His First Lieutenant continued to stare across the grey sea to the north-west. Day was dawning, and the spray, flung from the reeling bows of the Destroyer, was like a frozen whip-lash on their faces. "Yes, that's them," he said, in a grimly ungrammatical undertone. To the naked eye nothing was visible above the ragged skyline, but every man on the bridge was standing gazing intently in the same direction, as if the wind carried with it the scent of the quarry they sought.
The Commander gave an order to the Signalman standing attentive beside the daylight searchlight, and immediately the shutters broke into a chattering "View halloa!"
A blink answered on the instant, where, two cables astern, the second boat in the line followed in the heaving wake. Out of the faint haze of smoke that almost screened the rest of the division from view, one after the other the answers flickered, and then the leader spoke. The lights all blinked back together.
"Signal passed, sir!" said the Yeoman.
"Right," replied the Commander. He bent over the chart again for an instant, and straightening, gave an order to the wheel.
The leader's bows leaped at a charging sea, rose shuddering, and fell away from the wind a couple of points; the drone of the turbines below took on a different, higher note. The Commander turned and glanced along the upper deck with a little grim smile above the turns of his worsted muffler. The Destroyer was stripped for the fight, and at the mid-ship and after guns the crews were blowing on their hands and jesting amongst themselves. The Gunner sat astride the torpedo tube glancing along the sights as the twin tubes trained slowly round like ponderous accusing fingers.
"Your brother ain't going to be long unavenged," said the Commander to his First Lieutenant, as the latter climbed into the fire-control position. "We've caught this party cold!"